High Stakes by Ken Brosky

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High Stakes

By Ken Brosky

First published in: Diabolic Tales, Vol. 1

“Lock the doors,” the man with the bloody smile announced. He looked across the table. “I hope you don't mind if we shoot you when you try and escape.”

The gambler tongued his toothpick between his left incisors.

The man with the bloody smile laughed, sending globs of red saliva onto the small wooden table. “You hear that?” he exclaimed to the crowd of well-dressed businessmen surrounding the small table. “Neither did I. Hope that means ‘OK' where you're from, stranger.”

The gambler's eyes shifted from the man with the bloody smile to the crowd of aristocrats who were too busy placing their bets to listen to either of the contestants' words. He saw one of them – a heavy-set black man with a thick mustache – produce a large stack of bills from his pocket and hand it over to the collector, who quickly recorded the bet on his digital clipboard before moving to the next bet.

“I don't think they're listening,” the gambler said with a grin. He let his eyes return to the man's blood-encrusted teeth.

The man narrowed his dark green eyes. “You never told me your name, stranger. You're not from Kansas City, are you?”

The gambler watched the collector place the pistol in the middle of the table.

“You come here,” the man with the bloody smile said, “and you seek out a game of high stakes and we're gracious enough to take you in and you still won't tell us your name.”

“Cantrell.” The gambler spat the toothpick onto the wooden floor, in front of the collector's polished black shoes.

The collector furrowed his heavy brow when he saw the piece of chewed wood next to his expensive shoes, his eyes almost daring it to move just a millimeter closer. “You know the rules,” he announced finally. “One bullet, just like the Ruskies do it. Winner takes the pot of everyone who bets against him.”

“Yeah we know the fucking rules, McGraw.” The man with the bloody smile spat a thick globule of red spit over his shoulder, next to one of the businessmen. “Let's give these fuckers a show, right hoss?”

Cantrell's eyes shifted to the crowd of businessmen circling the small wooden table. He wondered how many had bets that he would take the loaded chamber first.

“I'll flip this coin,” the collector announced, revealing a shiny gold dollar from his breast pocket. “Tails goes to the stranger, heads goes to Clark.”

Cantrell placed a thin, pale hand over the coin before McGraw could flip it. “Wait. Use one of my dollars.”

McGraw narrowed his eyes, trying to see under the circular brim of Cantrell's hat, trying to dig into Cantrell's light brown corneas and ascertain evidence of corruption. “No,” he decided at last. “No, we'll be using my dollar. There'll be no cheating today.”

The man with the bloody smile laughed hard, sending more drops of blood onto the wooden table. “He's getting antsy, boys! We'd better start this up before he chicken shits and tries to make a run for it.”

“Oh no,” McGraw stated. “Nobody leaves once bets are placed. Either of you tries to leave now, you get shot anyways, so you may as well take your chances with the gun. Better odds, at least.”

“You hear that, stranger?” Clark used his exposed forearm to wipe the blood that had drizzled down his lip. “Better pick up that gun and take a pull.”

Cantrell narrowed his eyes under the brim of his hat. “The man hasn't flipped the coin yet.”

Clark's eyes darted to McGraw, who still had the coin outstretched in one hand, hovering over the table. “Call it a lucky guess.”

“Okay,” McGraw stated. He flipped the coin into the air. The crowd of businessmen hushed their talks to watch the piece of shiny metal spin towards the ceiling.

“Forty bucks says it lands tails,” Cantrell said.

Clark smiled his bloody smile. “You shouldn't bet against yourself, stranger. Irony's got a funny way of working out.”

“Not when it's rigged,” Cantrell said.

The coin bounced onto the table. It landed next to the pistol, tails-side-up.

“Tails,” McGraw announced. The crowd burst into a frenzy as more bets were placed.

“Lucky,” Clark said, keeping his bloody smile. “Looks like I owe you forty bucks.”

“Looks like it.”

“Tell you what: I'll pay you when we're done playing this here roulette game.”

Cantrell reached into the pocket of his dirty brown trench coat. He heard the click of several guns being pointed at him. He pulled out a toothpick and flashed it for the group of nervous businessmen. He placed it between his teeth and smiled.

“Now just put them things away,” McGraw ordered. “This isn't some goddamned movie where everyone's gotta play the tough guy. Now I'm serious – I'm not gonna let this here man pick up the pistol until those guns are back in their holsters.”

Cantrell watched the nervous betters shakily return their weapons to the respective holsters. He wondered how many of them had even fired a single shot in their entire life.

“Shit,” Clark said, spitting another red splotch onto the floor. “You'd think they're the ones riding the bullet or something.”

Cantrell said nothing. He watched McGraw carefully slide the pistol closer.

“Go head, stranger.”

Cantrell listened to the calls of the businessmen carrying over the continued bets. More money was being exchanged now. The smell of the inked paper wafted through the room. He picked up the gun and felt the cold metal weight in his hands. It was a relic, older than his father's father. A Colt, one of the reintroduced specials designed to look like the ones sheriffs used in the Wild West.

The gambler pressed the barrel against his temple and looked across the table. The man with the bloody smile sat motionless, his arms crossed over his pencil-thin chest, a very thin smile creeping across one side of his cheek. Blood oozed out of the tight crack, as if someone had simply cut a mouth across his cheek.

The gambler wrapped his index finger across the trigger and slowly squeezed. The metal of the hammer clicked against the empty chamber, the sound reverberating through the now-hushed room.

Some cheered. Some grumbled in disgust. The majority placed more bets.

Cantrell set the gun down on the table. He let McGraw slide it in front of Clark.

Clark quickly picked up the gun and pressed it under his jaw. “Never liked the side-on approach,” he said. “I hear it hurts like the dickens before you finally die.”

Cantrell watched the man with the bloody smile as his shaky index finger touched the warm metal of the trigger. He wondered if the man was acting, pretending to be afraid, as if this chamber would actually hold the single bullet meant for the stranger from out of town.

The hammer clicked. More cheers and grumbles, more bets. The cigarette and marijuana smoke had begun thickening the room, strings of gray lines dangling under the thin overhead light before creeping down and stinging Cantrell's eyes. He refused to brush it away, instead inhaling a heavy plume of the noxious scent through his nose, pulling the cloud away from his eyes for a brief moment. The nicotine and ash burned the lining of his nostrils.

“Fifty says you don't got the guts to swallow this one,” Clark said, biting his lip hard. A fresh trickle of blood ran down his chin. “You on, stranger?”

The gambler waited for McGraw to place the gun in front of him. He spat out his toothpick and picked up the sweaty piece of metal, placing the barrel inside his mouth. His tongue tasted the bitter metal, immediately retracting until it grew used to the new flavor. He pressed his thumb against the trigger, keeping his eyes on Clark's quiet repose.

The hammer clicked. Cantrell could hear more continuous grumbles and shouts of anger, less cheers. He could sense the anxiety inside the collective heart of the businessmen who no longer cared so much about their money. They wanted blood. They wanted brains splattered against one of the walls. Some of them wanted the fixed luck of the cocky man with the bloody smile to run out. More wanted the mysterious stranger to die vociferously in Kansas City, in the dim basement of Roy's Tavern.

He placed the pistol on the table. McGraw quickly picked it up and half-tossed it in front of Clark before returning to his busy task of collecting and recording the newest bets. Two very short identical men had begun eyeing Cantrell's movements closely, talking quietly with each other. Cantrell caught their eyes and slowly reached in his pocket for another toothpick. His hand did not shake; his movements remained smooth and calculated.

“Ten thousand on the redhead,” one of them finally decided. McGraw grabbed the money and recorded the bet before placing the wad of bills inside the satchel around his waist.

“Fuckers,” Clark spat. He smoothed out his short red hair with one shaky hand. “Never bet on your home team.”

The thin mint layer on the toothpick melted into Cantrell's taste buds. He savored the flavor while it lasted, keeping his eyes on Clark's nervous movements.

“Do it already,” someone in the crowd yelled.

The man with the bloody smile picked up the pistol and pressed under his jaw. A bead of sweat slid down from his receding hairline, coming to rest above his eyebrow. His free hand shook slightly on the table, but the gun remained steady as he wrapped his finger around the hot trigger.

Cantrell watched the hammer pull back very slowly before finally recoiling. The metal clicked and the crowd of suits erupted into. Clark dropped the gun to the table and quickly wiped the sweat from his forehead with both shaky hands.

“That's four chambers,” Clark said. “Two more left. Fifty-fifty odds, stranger.”

Cantrell watched Clark use one finger to wipe the small trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. The gun remained in front of Clark while McGraw attempted to deal with the overflow of bets pouring in from all around the table.

“It's a cop killer classic,” Clark said. “Guaranteed to shred both sides of your skull and maybe whoever's unlucky enough to be standing next to you.”

Cantrell curled his lip so the tip of his toothpick pressed against his tongue. He relished the feeling.

“You hear them?” Clark put one shaky hand to his ear. “They're all going nuts. They want to see one of our heads burst apart.”

McGraw placed the pistol in front of Cantrell.

“They love this shit,” Clark said. “Ever since the war, you know? Everybody wants blood, now. These guys run what's left of the fucking city, and how do they unwind? They come down here to watch more people fucking die.”

Cantrell rested his hand on the gun.

“McGraw, he gives ‘em a show. He gives ‘em a great show, you know? Course you do. I could see it in your eyes right away. Now don't do anything stupid, stranger. Just play this game out like a good boy and there won't be any trouble.”

“Who said there was trouble,” Cantrell said. He picked up the gun and pressed the barrel against his temple.

Clark smiled his bloody smile. “That's a good boy. Now pull the trigger.”

The gambler could feel the collector's eyes on him now. He could feel the eyes of all the faceless suits in the room. Most of the betting had stopped, save for a few trying in vain to squeeze through the crowd to drop a fistful of bills into the collector's hand before the trigger could be pulled.

He could almost feel the bullet in the chamber. A classic cop killer that would cut through the gambler's skin, penetrating his temple and severing both sides of his brain, punching through the thick glob of muscle with ease before crashing through the other side of his skull and into the chest of the fat black man with the mustache who stood directly next to the table.

But that was only if the bullet wasn't a dud, only if the gambler's luck would finally run out. He knew it wouldn't. He could almost see the manufacturer's defected metal protrusion that would stop the hammer before it touched the butt of the bullet. Or maybe the powder inside had slowly drained through a needlepoint hole, caused by something sharp – maybe from a crash – during shipping. It didn't matter. What mattered was the bullet wouldn't fire.

Cantrell pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked. He watched Clark's smile fade, his eyes grow wide, his brain running through a thousand scenarios at once, trying to understand why the slug hadn't discharged from the chamber. Cantrell saw Clark's bloody lip begin to twitch and all at once he could read the man's mind: had he miscounted, put the bullet in the wrong chamber?

The crowd erupted in an orgy of fury and cheers. The two identical bald men hugged each other in ecstasy before turning to their allied cohorts and exchanging congratulatory handshakes.

McGraw slowly slid the gun in front of Clark. The two exchanged a long, nervous glance before he finally held up his hands. “No more bets,” he announced. “Collection after death.”

Clark stared at the gun for a moment. He looked up at McGraw with wide eyes. Sweat dripped down his rosea-ridden cheeks. McGraw shrugged, shaking his head solemnly. Cantrell watched it all from under the brim of his hat, quietly grinding the splinter of wood between his teeth.

The man with the bloody smile picked up the gun. His hands shook terribly as he pressed the barrel under his jaw. The screams of the crowd of suits had grown deafening. Those who had bet against him now wanted his blood. The others wanted his blood, too, their winnings no more than a faint afterthought for the time being.

“Fucking shit,” he muttered. The gun's barrel bobbed up and down with his jaw as he spoke. “Fuck you, McGraw.”

“Now you know I ain't had nothing to do with it,” McGraw said in a tone no louder than a whisper. But the gambler heard it, even if the raging crowd had not.

The man with the bloody smile pulled the trigger. His head spasmed and his breath came out in a hiccup-mixed-with-a-scream, sending droplets of saliva-mixed-with-blood onto the wooden table. Each eyelid squeezed out a tear.

The hammer clicked against metal. The crowd of suits stood silent for a moment.

The gambler smiled.

“It's a fucking fix!” the black man with the mustache decried. Others began mumbling their agreements. Within moments the entire crowd seethed with animosity.

McGraw held up his hands. “Now wait a minute. I loaded that goddamned bullet myself, and I ain't no goddamned cheater!”

“You bet a lot of money on the stranger,” someone in the back of the crowd said to another better. “A lot of money thrown at someone you never met.”

“Just come out with it and accuse me, you mother fucker.”

“It's a fix and the Coakley brothers are in on it those bastards won last week too!”

Clark dropped the gun to the table. He pressed one hand against his chest. His breathing continued at a fast rate, unable to slow any considerable amount. Sweat poured from his brow and dripped onto his button-up shirt.

McGraw picked up the gun and opened the chamber. He locked the chamber back in place. “One of these men should be dead, cause there's a bullet sitting in this chamber.”

“Bullshit!”

“It's a fix!” a younger-looking man shouted out from next to Clark.

McGraw pointed the gun at the younger-looking man. “You care to test that theory, boy?”

The young man held out his arms. “Fire away, you damned cheater. And then gimme back all my bets before I gut you like a fish.”

McGraw pulled the trigger five times. On the fifth, the gun discharged, sending a small plume of smoke into the air. The room lit up for only a fraction of a second, long enough for Cantrell to see the two dozen businessmen jump back in amazement.

The young man fell backwards, as did the pudgy man in the striped suit who had stood directly behind him. The blood oozing out of the gaping holes in their chests quickly seeped into the fine stitching of the suits.

Screams. Guns drawn. Accusations. Sides taken. Shots. It all happened in a matter of seconds as the room broke out into a chaotic drive for blood.

The gambler ignored the frenzy even as heavy side arms discharged inches from his face in every direction. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plain deck of cards. He began shuffling them on the table, stopping only once to brush a thick spatter of blood off the shoulder of his trench coat.

The body of one of the twin businessmen fell on the table with bullet hole in his forehead. Clark stood up and pulled the man off of the table. He drew his gun and pointed it at Cantrell.

“I don't know how you did it,” he huffed out. “Look at me, you fucker. Look me in the eyes.”

Cantrell looked up. He cut the deck of cards between his fingers. “How about a game of poker, Clark?”

The man with the bloody smile turned left when he saw the suit coming at him. He fired three shots into the businessman's chest, then two more when the body hit the hard ground. He returned the barrel's aim to the gambler.

Cantrell dealt five cards to the empty chair, then five to himself. “Sit down, Clark. Let this shit settle.”

Clark watched the gambler's movements carefully. His eyes shifted over Cantrell's shoulder. The gambler did not move when he felt the cold barrel on the back of his neck. He pictured the faceless suit holding the gun, brash and uneducated in the real world, stationed behind a desk identical to a thousand others, satisfaction only arriving when the thrill of the roulette sent another body to the city morgue.

Another much louder shot rang out from the other side of the room as a bullet soared past Cantrell's ear and dig into thick meat. He felt the barrel slide off of his neck as the lifeless body fell to the floor. He didn't bother to turn and see who had brazenly attempted to kill him: he didn't care who had fired the shot, nor was he surprised to be saved.

“Pick up your cards,” Cantrell said. He picked his own up, not flinching when he heard McGraw's girlish scream over the continued gunshots and sounds of fists breaking skin.

The man with the bloody smile used one hand to pick up the cards, keeping his gun pointed at the gambler. He risked looking at them for only a moment before returning his cautious gaze to the surrounding anarchy.

Three more gunshots and the room went silent. Cantrell allowed his eyes to circle what remained. Bodies lined the floor, some unmoving, others curled up in pain and whimpering softly. A hundred different shades of blood lined the once dirty-white walls.

“So how'd you know?” Clark asked. He shook his gun at Cantrell. “You must have known.”

Cantrell spat out his toothpick. “I figured it.”

“So tell me how you did it,” Clark said. “Before I kill you. I wanna know how you almost fucked me over.”

Cantrell looked at his cards: one ace, and four kings. He discarded the four kings. “How many you want.”

Clark looked at his cards again. He set down two cards and slid them across the table. “How'd you do it? Shuffle that deck first.”

The gambler set his ace down face-up and shuffled the deck. He dealt two cards to the man with the bloody smile, then four to himself. He kept them face-down, not bothering to look at them. He knew what they were. He always knew.

Clark looked at his new hand. He smiled his bloody smile and set his gun down. “What was it? That bullet should have fired in the fifth chamber.”

The gambler shrugged. “Just lucky, I guess. Could have been a misfire. Could have been a jam. Could have been anything. Doesn't matter.”

The man with the bloody smile licked his red lips. “You think you're that lucky? Well I think I'm pretty fucking lucky, too. Let's see who's luckier, gambler.”

Cantrell pointed to McGraw's lifeless body. The satchel of money sat on the ground next to it, clutched tightly by the hands of another lifeless suit. “The kitty. Winner takes all.”

Clark grinned and nodded. His blood-encrusted teeth opened only slightly when he spoke. “Fine, gambler. Straight flush.” He revealed his five cards, six to ten, all clubs.

Cantrell returned the smile. “The problem,” he said, turning over his remaining four cards, three aces and a joker, “is I never lose.”

Clark's bloodshot eyes widened. His lip curled into a growl. “Bullshit! Bullshit, gambler!”

“It's a curse,” the gambler said. “When you always win, you can't hustle, and when you can't hustle, you can't win the big hands.”

“No one gets five fucking aces!” Clark screamed, slamming his fist on the table. He picked up his gun.

Cantrell recovered his cards and returned them to his pocket. He grabbed the collars of his trench coat and pulled them away to reveal his chest. “Try it. But you won't hit me. If you're lucky, you'll just miss. If you're not, chances are the gun'll misfire, or someone lying in that heap of bodies'll fire off one more dying shot. Or maybe worse. I can't lose, Clark.”

The man with the bloody smile hissed through his teeth. He pointed the barrel at the gambler's chest. His hand shook uncontrollably. Each breath came out in a fast, quick huff. He pulled the trigger.

The gambler smiled.